


In Between the Eyes

by TheycallmeVintinneOWO (orphan_account)



Category: Death Note, Death Note: Another Note
Genre: Apathy, Asperger Syndrome, Attempted Underage, Attempted rape/non-con -- minor, Black Humor, Brain Damage, Cannibalism, Cats, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Drug Abuse, Eating Disorders, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Explicit Language, Explosions, Fucked Up, Gore, Hallucinations, Horror, I'm so sorry., Identity Issues, Insanity, Isolation, It's Not Dubcon if They're dead, Journal Entries, M/M, Necrophilia, Neurotic tics, Obbsessive tendencies, Orphans, Other, Personality Disorders, Psychosis, Pyromania, Sadism, Self Harm, Self mutiation, Smoking, Suicide, Therapy, Unhealthy obbsessions, Unreliable Narrarator, an unhealthy amount of jam, odd style, self hate, some minors OCs, very very bloody/violent/sadistic, wammy's house
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-28
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-05-23 16:37:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 16,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6122723
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/TheycallmeVintinneOWO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Beyond Birthday is a sick, twisted piece of shit. He might as well document it.</p><p>The dearest diary of everyone's favorite asshole of a murderer.<br/>(OFF HIATUS)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hell.... Oh.

**Author's Note:**

> yes hello okay this is going to be very violent and fucked up. And riddled with triggers. Proceed with caution.

I'm not going to waste time/space/words on anything. I'm not going to say hello to whoever the fuck is reading this. All I'm saying is... Turn back now.

 

________________________

Beyond Birthday. Rue Ryuuzaki. B. Backup. BB.  
22.  
Male.  
6"2.  
159 lb.  
Somewhere between both Russian and Asian descent.  
Only half human.  
Several undiagnosed mental conditions.  
A heroin addiction.  
An orphan.  
A detective.  
A perv.  
A murderer.

This is gonna be one hell of a ride.


	2. Gueeegh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs: Suicide mention, directly described suicide, graphic, violent descriptions. Holy shit we're only gettig started.  
> You have been warned.

I have 5 hours, 18 minutes and 27 seconds to write this.  
I'm not going to use all 5+ hours, but I'll certainly be using a few of them. Consider this entry as the only one that will make sense, a guide of sorts. I refer to myself as Niya Ringor at the moment, and I am situated in the basement of... A house. That is conveniently unoccupied.

It has been fifteen days since I've 'died' in prison, and I have yet to murder again, and I still planning on it. Definitey. There's just been a slight... Uh, mishap. Concerning a certain, disgustingly nosey God of Death.  
I met Indictus while I was sorting through my identifiction papers, all of the illegally forged documents and whatnot. My first instinct was to chuck a knife at the thing's head, but it grabbed it at an inhumane speed. Obviously that meant I should ask it if it stole the taco I had stol-- borrowed from the fridge upstairs.

That was an interesting night for sure. The thing has been watching me ever since, hardly speaking. I continued the dull paperwork. Gods, I wanted that stupid pile of shit to burn. Burn burn burn burn burn  
burn like I did.

Fuck, the scars were ugly. They still are. I had curled up in the flames, protecting my torso and face. My back got the worst of it, but that's not to say a good bit of my face melted off. I got a moderate amount of surgery in the prison hospital, but I was ruined. I couldn't possibly ever be L. Of course, because logic dictated that ever being him was impossible, I just had to defy it it.

When I say I'm good with makeup, I mean I'm seriously good with makeup. I can become anyone. Anything. So I remade my face just enough to pass for normal. Well, as normal as something like me could get. But it wasn't B. It was off. I still don't care. I don't think I could have handled seeing B again.  
Nowadays I feel like I can't handle seeing anyone.  
…  
…  
…  
Wammy's. Wammy's. Wammy's wammys wammys wammys.  
Orphanage.  
I was an orphan. I didn't care. I was orphaned at a very young age. I was sent to a newly opened orphanage where I met two other boys and two other older men. I immediatly despised the first boy. Quillsh Wammy, founder of Wammy's. He introduced me and the boy. The boy was A, but to me the boy was Andrew Creif Moore. A boring, stupid name for a stupid, pathetic boy.

The other boy however, was the polar opposite. Wammy introduced him as L, and I chose to examine Lawliet instead. Even then I looked slightly like him. His teeth were whiter, his hair longer and softer, his jaw less angled, his eyes wider and darker, his build leaner and shorter. I remember every single difference.

Everything that made me not him.

Holy hells, was he beautiful. Andrew on the other hand, was hardly of interest. He has scrawny, mousey features and a short, scraggly mop of brown hair which fell uselessly into his small, watery eyes. He was smart though. But I refused to let him be smarter than me. Apparently he was first in line to succeed L. To be L.

He wasn't worthy of it. I made sure he knew that every night as I hissed into his ear, seething and glaring at his wrinkled, upset features that tried to cut me off, shut me out. It never worked, and he never stopped listening. 

Once I threw a jar of jam at his head.

After he committed 'suicide' I left. I took my things with me, scrounged up some money, and lived on the streets. Andrew was my first murder. The first gushing of red on pale skin. The breaking of the dam. I laugh, sometimes, when I think of what happened. The little prick was so pathetic he couldn't even mnage to take his own life. So me, the kind roomate as I was, decided to help.

He was hanging over the sink. There was so, so much blood. It swirled lazily down the drain, dwindling like the numbers above Andy-darling's head. He had done a hack job of slicing his wrists, the dull kitchen knife resting on the counter. I remember the fear, the questioning, pleading look in his eyes as tears silently mixed with saliva and blood.

I remember picking up the knife with a bit of paper towl, wrapping his hand around it and jamming it harshly into the veins in his forearm. He probably would have screamed if it wasn't for the hand towl he had clenched between his teeth. Pathetic bastard.

There was plently of sobbing, whining, whimpering and muffled screams as finished the brat off. The numbers slowly dissappeared, amd so did his name. The stifing presence of Andrew Crief Moore's name and life has been erased, and I felt as though I could breathe easier. Then, I screamed.

Roger was there in a few moments. I was crying in a corner. I had found dear, sweet Andy dead over the bathroom sink of our shared room. I was obviously distraught and traumatized. I mean, everyone had seen it coming. Andrew had issues.

'Don't stare, he's going through a lot.'  
'I hear they caught him of the edge of the roof earlier.'  
'Wasn't he number one?'

Of course it was well known that I didn't like Andrew (to put it very lightly.) But I maintained a facade of 'frienemies' in front of the others. A slight, needing, but understandably creepy affection. I made sure to downplay the dislike as much as possible. But truly, I hated the little bitch. He was a waste of space, just another wall preventing me from having my sweet little Lawliet. And like all misplaced walls, this one had to be torn down.

I felt no remorse. Maybe an adrenaline rush, but that was it. I did what had to be done, and that was all there was to it. I had held back. I could have gutted him. I could have ripped out his whiny little tongue and watched him squirm. But I didn't. I had a job to do, so I chose to do it correctly. Now, murder is mostly pleasure for me. The pure joy and surge of excitement that rushes over you when you hear the first scream is indescribable.

It's like nothing I've ever felt before, and it's beautiful.


	3. Fuck.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitchy Birthday is his usual asshole self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing is hard. yay for BB not making any sense now. any grammatical errors are purely for writing.... Aesthetic?
> 
> Also this is rated Explicit for the violence, gore, horor, language, and the generally fucked up concept. YOU HAVE BEEN WAAARNED.

My mother was a whore who hardly had time to raise a two year old, and my father was an esteemed businessman who used her and left. I was in the regular system for six years. I never stayed in a foster home for more than a week or so. Some labelled me 'problematic' as a child. I disregarded this obviously insane statement.

 

Pain. Pain Pain pain pain ap pain

 

Tiger whiskers.  
Painful. if eaten results in malnourishment, hemorraging and months of pain. Shreds inrestines and results in a slow, cruel death.

Anti-freeze.  
A quicker death but still painful.

Fingers.  
You can split them down the hand, crush them, rip out the fingernails, and they're bitten off as easy as you coud bite a carrot.

Lobotomizing.  
With proper knowledge of the neurological setting of one's mind, messing around with a few lobes, whether occiptal or frontal can be helpful and interesting to experiment with. At most can reduce victim to a vegetable state. Can easily result in death.

Sewing of skin.  
Painful, uncomfortable, maybe even more painful when the threads are ripped.

Skinning.  
A painful, long process that leads ultimately to death due to blood loss if done properly.

Force-feeding of knives.  
Glaringly horrific but efficient.

Removal of uterus.  
Dehabilitating, possibly mentally breaking for some women.

Burning.  
A truly hellish experience, in the short and long run.

Inhaling sulfur.  
Need I explain?

Hydrochloric acid.  
Oh, the things a person could do with this stuff. The only thing it doesn't melt is plastic.

Force-feeding of magnets.  
Extra points if you get some down air passages. Generally fucks up your insides.

Bleaching of skin.  
Scarring, painful.

Crushing of testes.  
Humiliating, painful.

Melted glass in any orfices. Anywhere really is fucking awful.

Stitch their eyes open. May work for mouth.

Pour water/blood into their lungs.

More fun ways to break someone: Mental edition!

1\. The good old impersonation play. (impersonate loved one. The better the impersonation the better the part where you crush them.)  
2\. Forcing those apprehensive to violence to somehow murder someone. Or force an open wound on their mouth.  
3\. Water boarding. And not the fun kind you do on a lake.  
4\. Force-feed them human flesh.  
5\. Insert doubts about their sanity. Perhaps you're not even real.

Anyways. 

Once, I threw myself from the banister at the top of a railing at Wammy's. It was shortly after A died in a useless heap. All of my teeth were chipped and I suffered a concussion and major brain damage. Since then I've had memory loss and extreme migraines. I was mute for the remainder of my time at the orphanage, and they believed me to be traumatized by finding A dead, and watched me any further for suicidal intent.

I ran several weeks after the funeral. I actually made it all the way to the US, and I situated myself in New York. I moved quite a bit, planning and thinking.

Eyes.  
My eyes have been with me as long as I can remember, and my awareness just as long. No, my legal name was not Beyond Birthday. Who the fuck would name their child that? Beyond Birthday. Heh. My mother probably didn't care enough to name me. If anything I was a failed abortion.

Nah, I call myself Beyond Birthday because of my awareness. I knew even before I was born that my mother would die in a tangled heap like a pig, and that my father was mugged shortly before that.

The numbers don't make sense in human terms. But I've always known, it has been my curse. The presence of the red letters and figures is stifling, even suffocating at times. It's part of why I loathe other people, but it makes the clarity of a sweet, lifeless corpse all the more enjoyable. It is my refreshment in this world.

The redness never leaves when I'm with someone. It's not simply something that can be turned on an off, and I hate it. But you get used to it. You have to.

 

Once I killed a little girl's parents in front of her. I wasn't Beyond Birthday then, but I can guess I didn't look too welcoming. Especially at that part where I shoved my hand down the mother's throat. I left the little girl alone, sobbing uselessly on the ground. Trauma can attest for a nice, broken brain. Heh, I would know.

Reminder: Buy more welders.

L.  
L L L L L L L L.  
Lllllawliet.  
That bastard.

He ignored me. Purposefully.  
He knew I was the murderer. Hell, he probably knew I killed A. And yet he let me sneak into his room at the few times he was in bed, and I would watch him. Sometimes I would try to curl up with him, but he shooed me out. Most of the time, at least.

I left a dead crow on his desktop once. It was pretty. I had even snapped it's neck myself. He knew it was me.

He always knows.

Asshole...

He's pretty. His hair reminds me of the crow. L is rather crow like anyways. I could snap his neck. But that's not how I would kill him. Too painless for my taste. I would do something special. Just for him. It would be beautiful.

 

Successors. Successors successssucceed  
Mihael Keehl. Mail Jeevas. Nate River.  
They're sorta my successors. Succeeding the successor. Ha.

I don't feel like writing about this and that damn shinigami is bugging me again. Sorta makes me wonder what would happen if maybe they didn't catch the knife. Maybe I coud take out the other eye.

I could ask where the first one-- the one on their left-- went. I don't think they have that sense of humor. The thing is nearly ten feet tall, and then it's crouching. Their legs are ridiculously long, and they crouch like a frog's, but bend sideways. Thorns and black jewels are imbedded in the legs. The face is absolutely disgusting and who cares if shinigami can read or not this thing smells like death and fuck it's way too close


	4. Reminder: Don't let Indictus Near Welders.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birthday Boy's whinings. Also, more history.  
> Eating disorder and self harm mention. And child abuse mention. Yes i know i fucked up the timeline.  
> Suicide and murder too.

1983\. A nameless child was born in a shitty apartment. Immediately labelled as a condom failure and mentally retarded. Was taken care of for 2 years until mother died in a train wreck. Father was never in the picture, deceased a year before mother.

1985\. Nyet Kjelling was given said name legally and sent into social services. 

1986\. First foster home at the age of 3, they sent him back after a month and two days. Described as an unnerving, unnatural, undesirable child.

1987\. Three foster families, all sent him back within a few month's time.

1988-1992. Only two more foster families. An incident of abuse pccured with distant relatives of the first foster family, thus Nyet was taken back into the custody of the orphanage. The second family followed the pattern of rejection, Nyet returning only a week after.

1993\. Nyet Kjelling was transferred to Wammy's orphanage. He was 9 at the time. Andrew Crief Moore was orphaned at the age of 8, and was immediately transferred to Wammy's. 

1994\. A and B have recieved ranks, and both have met L. The 'friendly' rivalry is on.

1995\. B begins to display disturbing signs of mental instability and A falls into paranoia and depression. His grades fall with him, but B's remain consistent. 

1996\. B's mental state and A's spirits rise, but grading remains consistent. New children arrive at the orphanage.

1997\. More children. B's grades are increasing while A's are worsening. B appears stable but A has resorted to Anorexia and self harm. He is hospitalized and undergoes two years of therapy until he seemed stable. B is 13 and A 12.

1999\. A is out of therapy. Him and B are no longer options for successors to L. B's mental state decreases as well as A's. B is 15 and A is 14. B has attacked 3 students and continually torments A. 

2000\. L has chosen new successors.

2001\. A has committed suicide and B ran away two weeks later. He was never seen again at Wammy's, though there were rumors.

2002\. B is in New York, killing prostitutes for money and their makeup. He lives homeless for the year.

2003\. B acquires a motel room and continues his murders. 

2004\. The LABB murder cases occur and Beyond Birthday is apprehended and arrested by Naomi Misora after he attempted to burn himself to death. He dies four months later in prison of a mysterious heart attack.

2005\. Kira is rising and I'm alive as ever.

Heh.  
L never makes a deduction unless he is 90% sure. So any percentages lower than 90% are a lie.

L is quarter Japanese, Russian, Italian and French.

Funny how such coincidences arise. Beyond Birthday is half Japanese, half Russian. 

Indi is bothering me again. They want more pomegranetes. I bought them five an hour ago. Greedy bastard. They tore through them like how I usually handle victims in bouts of fury, but with less finesse.

In normal circumstances I would tell the whiny asstard to go fuck themselves. However, that thing's claws are far from normal. Besides, they usually are vaguely bearable. You get used to the suffocating presence after a while. But you never get over the feeling of constant scrutinization. Like you're a strange new species being examined by nosey scientests.  
It's unnerving at times.

I'm planing my first murder since my attempted suicide.

Lillyana Lezch.  
28.  
Female.  
Blue eyes.  
Brown hair.  
137 lb.  
5"8.  
Native American.  
Orphan.  
Lives with aunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. No I'm not giving Indictus gender, they are a shinigami, and essentially have no need anyways.  
> 2\. Beyond refers to himself in 3rd person at times.   
> 3\. He's writing this after he faked his death in prison.
> 
>  
> 
> ALL SHALL BE EXPLAINEEEED.


	5. Salt can help remove blood stains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Murder. Lots.

Once I tried to kiss L.

He kicked me in the chest and I elbowed him in the jaw. We fought. Watari found us just as I was about to smash one of L's pretty teacups into his pretty head. I was given two weeks in my room for that.

I was nothing at Wammy's after he chose new successors. Just a whisper amongst the orphans, a lesson to learn about obbsession from. A was far more gossiped about however. A bigger lesson. I wasn't envious. The bigger the failure the bigger the lesson.

I should probably document the successors as long as I can remember them. In Wammy's house, there are 8 grades, or classes.

The eighth class is for the newest or youngest children. Either that or completely retarded, which isn't likely. You won't find a child with an IQ below 110. Here, of course, there is no such thing. Only classes.

Class Seven. Oh yeah, Wammy's house only takes children three years or over. For the 4-7 year olds

Class Six is for those under 10 with minor mental issues, such as ADHD or anger issues.

Class five is for those 10 and older with said issues.

Class four is for the generally smarter children who are smart enough to recieve the special care pack (more on that later.)

Classes three and up are for the children in line to succeed L.

I was in class 1. The directly associated class.

I don't really care about that any more. I'll stop blabbing, but I'll profile the chidren later. I have a murder to plan.

I will arrive at the Lezch household at 9pm. Lillyana will be alone. I'll paralyze her, then begin my work. She'll be placed in the shoe closet.

…  
…  
…

It's done.

 

Ms. Lezch died at 9:13pm, Thursday the 7th by the complete destruction of her frontal lobe and blood loss. Her corpse suffered major burns on her forearms and feet, as well as her neck. It was beautiful.

I entered her house and found her in the hall. I jabbed the paralytic into her neck before she let out a scream. I layed her body across the floor, taking out the nails I had brought. I drove them all the way into her eyes, directly in the pupil. Taking out 8 pins, I pinned her eyelids open before smoothing the hair out of her face. She would make a lovely corpse.

I then made 4 laceractions along her neck, 2 on each side. They might as well have been my "color here" lines. I burned on the sides of the lines, on the sides of her neck. I then severed all of her fingers, bagging them and putting them away. Finishing burning her feet and arms, I completed the last, precarious step.

Carefully, very slooowly, I carved out her heart and bagged it as well. This is definitely more elaborate than my previous murders. Dragging her body and nestling it carefully in the shoe closet, I cleaned all of the blood and fingerprints, only cleaning mine. I wore gloves anyways.

Then, later that evening I burned all of my items, and went back here to wait. It was just on the news. Ms. Lillyana Lezch, age 28, ceases to exist.

Indictus doesn't look happy, but they never look happy. Actually, their mouth is set in a permanent grimace. Hmm. Appearance wise, not so pretty. They have shaggy, short grey hair that darkens in places, and an angular jaw. A bandage wraps around one side of their head… covering where I guess an eye used to be. The other eye is wide, slanted and glows a bright gold.

The thing is ugly as fuck.

They never stop watching me. Sometimes I want to rip one of the strange, thorny looking spikes jutting out of it's collar and take out the other eye. Henh. They went to go find some pomegranetes or something, so I have a few moments of privacy. I'll make use of it and shower, I can't imagine getting naked around that thing. Ugh.

…  
…  
…  
The Students.

Name: Andrew Crief Moore.  
Age: 15.  
Gender: Male.  
Class: 1.  
Nationality: Austrian.  
Appearance: 5”6, scrawny, short, messy brown hair, blue eyes, glasses, pale skin tone, small nose, thin lips.  
Personality: Weasly, cowardly piece of shit.

Name: Nate River.  
Age: 8.  
Gender: Male.  
Class: 1.  
Nationality: Possibly Thai.  
Appearance: Small, fragile albino with curly, short hair. Wide, dead grey eyes. Very tiny.  
Personality: The child of Satan, quiet, no soul.

Name: Mihael Keehl.  
Age: 15.  
Gender: Male.  
Class: 2.  
Nationality: German.  
Appearance: Long, light blond hair that curls in. Bangs as well. Scrawny, average height, big blue eyes.  
Personality: A total fuckwad. Tempermental, envious little cunt.

I'll do more when I feel like it, the shinigami is back.


	6. Sex, drugs, and.... Murder?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bottom Bitch gets a new pet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small cannibalism mention, disturbing concepts, drug mention, entering into mental instability, mindfucks, all sortsa fucked up shit :)

I'm not doing profiling. I'll just ramble, simpler that way.

I despise the term insanity. It is something ignorant, fearful, self absorbed humans use to reject ideas beyond comprehension. I've already slipped past the fact that my morals are nonexistent, and I believe that simply prevents ny inhibitions in what I can and won't do.

Simply because one has a different mindset, who does not conform to a certain collection of basic human principles, is rejected by society because of the fear of oneself. The fear that all of these monstrosities, the horrors around you, come from within. So to say you didn't do it, you latch onto more people, forming aliances, relationships, dependencies. 

It makes you weak.

Those who divert, however, who try to do something else, get different results than what the 'normal' people get. They get progress. Understanding. Experience, and comprehensions. The understanding that  
EVIL IS A POINT OF VIEW.

Everything is a point of view, but that's just my point of view. Or is it?

You must embrace the fact that you alone are responsible for your life, the 'mistakes', the deaths and horrors your mind has made. That you are not innocent, or righteous. That you are a pathetic waste of human flesh.  
Only then can one truly understand who the hell they are.

The fact that creatures who can do such things actually exist would be terrifying to a lesser being. Humans are selfish, ignorant, bitter, closed off things that eventually swallow themselves whole. The thought is so laughable.

I have a man in a cage.

His name is Sil Marren, and he's a young college student who forgot the dangers of walking home alone at night.

He's 20, Korean, and the son of a single mother who lives in Quebec. About 5"9, lean but muscled enough, and in generally good health. He should make for a good experiment. He's been unconcious since I drugged him, and since then has not woken up. I simply hope he won't be one to be muted by fear or look at me as something who only understands violence.

Then he's dead for sure.

Indictus has been unusually quiet as of late, which isn't unlike them, but is still slightly concerning. The thing could kill me at any time, and it makes me wonder if I've pissed them off somehow. It's not entirely unlikely, seeing as how unpredictable the monstrosity is.

And that unpredictability is what makes me incredibly wary of them. They haven't taken any sides, shown any opinions on my habits, or shown any pity or anger. I have nothing on who's ground they stand on, and that's not good. The most emotion they've expressed has been curiousity. Not even approval or disgust.

Slightly boring, but it really fucking puts me on edge. Just another problem on the table for now. Until I learn more about Indi, I won't let my gaurd down.

I've been far too paranoid recently. Too neurotic, like I'm on a constant sugar rush. I haven't taken any heroin lately, which explains most of it, but it's hardly even that. I've been having violent urges in public which I almost act upon, and suicidal urges spiking constantly, and at times I involuntarily snap my neck into an angle that causes my head to crack against the wall or floor, at such a harsh speed I'm momentarily stunned, make myself volatile.

I should have seen this coming. I can hardly go a few weeks without an episode. It gets rather nasty, but thankfully hasn't affected my writing too much, other than when I get jittery hands. Sometimes it develops into vocal tics, such as involuntary repetition, the inability to pronounce my words, and violent stuttering.

I don't hear things. I've never heard 'voices,' the stereotype of insanity. The only voice in my head is my own, and it never fucking STOPS. I see things however. Unnatural shadows, contorted faces of friendly passerby. Splattered ice cream on the sidewalk can quickly turn into a pile of guts, given helpfully by the crying child.

It really messes me up, but I've gotten used to it.

…  
…  
…

The years between LABB and Wammy's.

Bloody, long, and really fucking painful.

As I have said before, I made my way to New York and lived on the streets, mostly crawling into little hidey holes and sometimes dumpsters if things got real shitty. Things tended to get real shitty far more than nessecary. I often resorted to petty theft, and grew more and more experienced in the realm of murder.

It started out small. A corpse here, a dead prostitute there. No one would notice. I often burned the bodies, or cut them up into pieces and plastic wrapped them, burying them or tossing them in water after I completely destroy any evidence of who they were. It was quite the efficient process.

I killed the hookers and whores for their money and makeup, growing more talented at concealing my identity and making my face into something else. I would murder rich CEOs, or simple accountants, just so I could find some piece of shit to eat. 

I once tried human flesh. Not something I'd want to live on.

Marren is waking up. Finally.  
He's confused. Then afraid. Then angry. Then afraid and confused. He's looking at me now. I wave. He asks me who I am. I say nothing. He asks again, louder, appearing frantic as he grabs the bars of the cage (yes, it is a literal cage.) He asks me what am I.  
I still don't reply. He asks me what I'm writing, why is he in a cage, am I going to kill him, so forth, so on. I say nothing still. He buries his face in his hands, curling up in the cage. I believe he's crying. I love it when they cry.

I've gotten up, walked to my minifridge and chucked a pomegranete at him. It narrowly misses the bars, hitting the side of his head. He's stopped crying, and is now confused.

He stares at it for a while, both suspicious and flustered. 'You eat it.' I tell him simply, and his head jerks up and he stares at me. He's probably in shock. Slowly, very slowly, he picks it up. Clumsily rips off the skin. Stares at me then pomegranete, me, pomegranete, me, pomegranete. I raise a brow.

He eats it. He grimaces, it's probably sour. But He keeps eating, picking out the tiny seeds and hurridly spitting out bits of skin. Slowly, he stops. Looks at me. Asks again, 'who are you?' I simply tell him to call me Taris, and that he'll be staying with me for a while. He asks what I want with him. I don't reply. He asks to be let out. I slowly shake my head. He asks if I want money, food. I shake my head again.

He seems exhasperated, and asks then what. This makes me actually smile as I stop writing for a bit. 'I simply want you.' For a moment, he looks befuddled, then horrified, then befuddled again. I do not elaborate. He looks around the apartment. Indi is next to me in the corner, but he can't see them.

The apartment isn't much, but it's enough. Dull grey walls, a dark, stained wooden floor. A bedroom, a bathroom, and a mini kitchen. A couch, broken TV, endtable, window, the cage. A sink, some cupboards, and two counters provide for the kitchenette, as well as the minifridge I had added.

I may have overdosed a bit on the paralytic for Sil. He slept all the way to 7pm the next day, which happens to be today. And so, I'm sitting here writing, he's sitting with a half eaten pomgranete and a rather dazed expression. Indictus seems to be asleep, but they never sleep. Ever.

I'll probably let him out eventually. I'll have to lock the door, the window, hide any utensils that he could use to attack me, but only the obvious ones. If he was creative he could use many, many things, but I doubt he could get very violent. He seems like a rather docile moose.

Looks can be decieving though. 

He seems despondent now, leaning against the back of the cage. He still glances at me from time to time, but says nothing. It's rather depressing. I get up. Get a chair. Get two chains from a cabinet. Hook them to the hookings in the ceiling by the cage. Sil watches me warily. The ceiling is rather high, and the short-ish chains dangles two feet from it. It should work.

Then, I sit down and write this. It's important that everything be documented. Everything needs to be saved. Not one small movement unwritten. I can't miss anything. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.

I get up again. Get a jar of jam. Sit down, eat it, Sil stares at me. Probably because I ate it with my fingers. 'That's not at all strange.' He said in an awkwardly loud voice as he continued to stare openly. Oh, this one is gonna be fun. Shit, I have jam stains on the pages now.

He has a deep, humorous voice that's tone suggests that under any other circumstances, he uses it a lot, and is not used to not knowing what to say. He has a rather happy, calming demeanor, and if I weren't a bitter bastard, I would probably like him. For now I'll settle with being fond of him and perhaps sexually attracted.

He seems rather frustrated that he's helpless, not to mention at a loss for words. I'm going to let him out for now.

I got up, put away the jam, my drug case, and a few other stabby items. The door and window are already locked, as well as my room. All the while, Marren watches me carefully. Then, I crouch down in front of the cage. He shrinks back slightly, eyes widening.

'I'm the LABB serial killer.' I say simply, and his eyes widen even more. He was about to say something, but abruptly stopped. 'Okay.' He managed squeakily, trying to inconspicously phaze through the cage and into the floor. I tilt my head. 'I'm not going to kill you.' His eyebrows shoot up. He seems more terrified now, which is understandable.

'Why?' Is all he whispers, and I consider his question. 'Because.' Wonderful reason. Didn't feel like coming up with one. I get out the keys, shoving them in the lock. Sil seems even more afraid of me, and scoots away slightly when I open the cage door. I take out the keys, walk back to the couch, curl up in the shitty cushions and watch him. He watches back for a bit. Slowly crawls out.

Stands awkwardly. 'You can sit.' I supply helpfully. He sits. Stares. 'When can I go home?' He asks softly. I think. 'Not now.' I say flatly. Dead silence. 'Is this your apartment?' Pause. 'Yes.' 'It's uh, it's nice.' 'No it's not.' More silence. I know I'm not helping.

I don't care.

He seems uncomfortable. Good for him. I guess he's the type that's more used to the action, the steretyped scenarios. But he doesn't seem too keen on being cliche himself, and for that I'm ever so slightly thankful.

I need to leave in about 20 minutes to go get some supplies. So, I get up. Motion for Sil to follow. He follows me to the cage, looking warily at the dark, iron bars. I jab a knockout into his neck before he can say anything, and soon enough, he's out cold.

I strugglingly cuff his ankles to the chains. The cuffs have padding and whatnot. But holy hells, was he heavy for his height. He's bent awkwardly over the chair now, and I drag it out from beneath him. He dangles two feet from the floor.

I take his glasses off, folding them and gingerly placing them on a table. He won't be needing them. After Sil-proofing everything, I leave and buy what I need.

\- More pomegranetes.  
\- Salt.  
\- Some glass vases.  
\- Wire.

And now I'm back, staring at Sil and writing this. Indi still hasn't spoken to me.

I'm getting an itch to dig my nails into someone's eyes again. Hnedddh. But with the urge comes a wonderful idea. I'll be back in a bit.

A young girl. Dark, coffee brown hair, green eyes, and pale, clear skin. Like a lovely, breakable porcelain doll. I tied her to the chair and gagged her. She's currently taking a little nap. Novaline Newland. Stupid name, but it works.

Sil is awake again. He's staring at the little girl, and at me.

'Let her go.' He says finally. His voice is harder, and his face is set in a dead serious scowl. I smile, shaking my head. Sil looks down, and notices the strange plastic tray underneath the chair. His eyes widen.

Pulling on my plastic gloves, I go back into my room and get a large, plastic container. Emerging, I set to work on making sure little Novaline is perfectly still, not a fold of her soft, blue dress out of place. Sil is yelling at me, don't touch her, kill me instead, what the hell am I doing, etcetera.

I tel him to shut up. He stops, but glares furiously at me. I stand behind her and pick up the container. I open it.

Sodium Hydroxide. A fun little concoction of that and some hydroflouric acid makes for a lovely way to dispose of corpses, or in this case, provide the worst death possible for an innocent little girl and break a fully grown man as well. No matter who you are, it's a fucking awful way to die.

I smile as I dump the mixture over the unconcious little girl.

It eats away at her, running down her dress and burning into her hands and arms, melting away her hair and sliding into her now wide open eyes as she struggles, trying to scream through the gag. 

Sil looks like he wants to vomit, cry, look away, but he's transfixed in horror as he stares at Novaline, shaking slightly. It's burning away at her head and neck, she should be dead in a while. I carefully dump another container on her. That should finish her.

I hum, finishing cleaning up what I had done as Sil stared. 'You,' he hissed, 'are one sick son of a bitch.' I'm tempted to tell him how much that flattered me. I stay silent though.

I didn't touch her body or the tray. I would move it later. For now I let Sil stare at it. Just let it all soak in. We'll see how long he lasts.

I finish. Dispose of all of the DNA. I'm on the ground floor of my apartment, so the body should be no trouble. I then leave to retrieve a big box and a wheeler. I set up the box with little struggle, and carefully place Novaline into it, leaving the tray and ruined chair. I place the box onto the wheeler.

I wheel her out. Deliver her to the scene. Then gather everything else and burn it all. I return. Sil seems to be in shock. He doesn't even glare at me as I walk in. I begin cleaning up the cramped apartment.

I need to move. I pack everything. Sil watches me with a mixture of distrust, disgust, and horrified fascination. Finally, he asks me what I'm doing. I don't reply, continuing to pack. I don't own much. When It comes down to it, I only need two bags for my belongings. The rest of it can burn.

 

Me and Sil watch as the flames lick at the building across the street. I have three bags on my shoulders, and Sil is cuffed to me. He won't try anything. He loves his mother too much, silly boy. We're leaving Canada. Probably going to sneak into America.

And eventually, England. I 'borrow' a car. Nondescript, half the liscence plate rusted off. Nice radio though. Me and Sil listen to Rooster, a random rock song that plays fuzzily in the background.

His hand is now cuffed to the car door, so even if he tried getting out it would be painfully ugly. He seems dejected now, not saying anything. Indictus is pulling another AWOL stint.

It feels as if I'm the last person alive on Earth.

A barren, ashen land of gluttony and ignorance.

I feel eyes boring holes into the back of my neck.

Sil says something, but I can't hear him. 

He's sitting there. On the dashboard. Grinning that stupid fucking smug smirk of his, his wide, dead eyes staring into my own. Mocking me. Another pair of eyes appear. Dull, glassy, bloodshot.

Gods, it's so fucked up its so fucked up its so fucked the fucking fuck 

_____________________________________________________________

Car crash. Sil uncuffed by force of crash. Trying to help me. Moron. Blood. There's so much fucking blood. Mine. The blood is mine. I think I broke some fingers. Definitely chipped a tooth. Fuck, my face hurts. Probably going to swell. Bruise. Oh wait, burn scars can't bruise.  
Ha. My bad. 

My makeup is probably fucked up. 

Damn it.

I got rid of the car, don't ask how, it was a bitch, and this isn't towards anyone.

Me and Sil are in a shitty motel. I broke my left ring finger, sliced my lip open, and had a brief nosebleed following the crash. Sil didn't break anything, but his window was smashed open, resuting in several large gashes along his side. I must have briefly lost conciousness during the crash, and Sil tried to help. Tried to help.

He won't last for long unless he keeps being this entertaining.

I patched us up, made sure our things were in order, and set to writing. Sil still hasn't tried anything. Apparently the thought of his mother's face completely shredded and her guts held gently in her cold dead hands isn't a very appealing idea to him.

Funnily enough, it works for me. Right now Sil is currently leafing through the motel ad book. He asked if he could turn on the TV after a while of bordem. I said no.

I toy with the idea of shoving the pages of the Gideon bible in the drawer next to me down his throat out of sheer bordem. I decide against it.

So, change of plans. Find a new car. Hurry our asses up. Move further into the canadan wilderness. Fun times. Sil is being annoyingly quiet.  
I kissed him. It was more of a snog, really. I got bored and he wasn't doing anything useful. He tasted like mint gum and blood. Henh.

All he said when I pulled back was 'woah.'

He didn't try to disembowel me so I'm guessing he's still in shock.

I was tempted to fuck him right there and then (god knows it would take my mind off of everything) but I decided against it. Too many things to do. He's in the shower now. I'm not going to shower, but I still have to at least fix my face.  
Thank bad lighting for Sil not seeing most of it.

I walk over to the vanity and get out my makeup kit. I fix myself up to the point of almost looking normal.

Tying back my hair, I then go through the bags. Everything is in order. Sil comes out in the same clothes, but looks considerably nicer. I tell him to get some sleep, he makes a face, but tries anyways. 

I take out my laptop and research... Things. I tried hacking into the FBI's database, but grew bored after a few attempts. I myself slipped off once or twice, but for the most part stayed awake. Sil is completely knocked out, but thankfully not snoring.

Well. I should probaby stop writing now. Henh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and yes im making sil a bit like markiplier because i can so there


	7. Fucking cars, man.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disturbing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try and write more for each chapter~ Also I give up on warnings*. Theres just
> 
> it's fucked man
> 
> *only new stuff is sexual content.
> 
> Author's suggestion:
> 
> BB is an incredibly unreliable narrarator, and he often makes grammatical errors on purpose as nuerotic tics etc., and changes topics like  
> idk but hes a hoe  
> This isn't really meant to be something read normally. Think of it as you, a detective, shifting through the ruins of a burnt down motel, finding as much out about this character as possible. Piece the clues together. Or not , but I guess it's more fun.

He sits and stares at me, a disgusting amount of distrust in his enormous, dead eyes. I smile. I'm unnarmed, but he knows it's going to be painful anyways. I can and will make sure of it.

He has such beautiful, soft, pale skin, like he's never experienced the sun, or a day's work. Like he's never been cut, or bruised. I'll taint it. I'll scar him. Interupt his flawless, cool exterior, make him alive, make him bleed, make him human.

Make him mine.

I remember seeing him for the first time. At first, I was jarred to see a likeness so close to mine, but then i was jarred to see someone so flowingly, indescribably gorgeous. I wanted to reach out, touch him, see if he's real. But I didn't. I couldn't.

I hunted him down every chance I got, following him down narrow passageways, staring at him in the garden, sitting by him in the library. A few times he would glare at me and tell me to go to class, and I would crack a smile and tell him to go to hell.

On the nights after I found his room, I would slip in quietly and stare at him as he sat hunched over in front of his computer, the strange glow casting a rather odd light on his face.

And during the nights when he would try to sleep in his own bed, I would stare at him until he mumbled for me to go away. Then I silently curled up next to him and waited for morning.

I knew he didn't trust me. He had good reason to, I had nearly killed him once or twice. Not to mention the other students. He knew I was unstable. He knew I was violent, and that I had killed A. He knew he knew he knew he knows

L always knows.

I would snap at him, mutter, threaten, grip his hand a little too tight. It wasn't love, but that's what I'll call it. It was too full of violence, hatred, need. It was dysfunctional, but I wanted it to work. It had to. It's the type of hate where you won't let anyone but you kill them. L was mine.

We're on the road again. I got another shitty car, with a better engine this time. Sil has been rather awkward since the kiss. I don't care, I prefer silence anyways. Gods I hope he doesn't mistake pure sexual frustration for romance.

I turn up the radio. I shouldn't be thinking when driving. The last time that happened I got into a crash. Some old, slightly rockish song comes on, singing about a child. Too nostalgic for my taste, but I keep it on anyways.

Sil asks if he can roll down his window. It's nice out, and we're far too deep in the wilderness for cops. I nod. The warm breeze is far better than the nasty, stale air of the stolen car. Sil almost looks like a big, floppy dog as he leans out of the window, his hair in his eyes and the beginning of a grin on his face.

There's no way in hell I'll let him grow on me.

I'm jerked out of my thoughts. Damnit. I had hit the curb. I haphazardly swerved back into the road, veering into an old, worn paint line once or twice. Sil yelped, duck his head back inside. 'Are you sure you passed your driver's test?' He asks frantically. I mutter that I've never taken one.

He looks terrified and hunches down in his seat, clutching onto the car handle. I roll my eyes. Drama queen.

I tap the steering wheel impatiently at a rather twitchy pace, glaring forwards. I wanted to go faster, but I would probably crash. My legs also felt like shit because of the seat belt. I had snapped the chest strap behind me in the paranoia that it would break some vertebrae.

More boring driving.  
A few hours.  
Sil fell asleep. Drooled on the car arm. Woke up later.

I pulled up to our destination-- an old, decrepit hovel of a cabin in the middle of the Canadian wilderness. One of my safehouses. Sil blinks, still drowsy from his short nap.

I get out, snatching the bags and shuffling over to Sil. 'Home sweet home.' I mutter, and he laughs slightly. He looks nervous though. I drag him into the cabin, showing him the room we'd be staying in. An out-house style bathroom sits in the corner, and a livingroom-kitchen fills up the rest of the cabin.

There's a water pump and a wood stove, but not much else. We wouldn't be staying long. I needed electricity, something to keep tabs on him. Or anything else.

I begin to unpack the bags partially.

\- Three changes of clothes.  
\- Murder kit.  
\- Some bottles of water and jars of jam.  
\- A first aid kit.

so fortfh whatever so on.

I have extra jam and canned foods in the cabinet. There's a cellar. I hope it has some fucking alcohol in it. I start to rifle through the cabinet. Craving some sweet besides jam for once. I find kool-aide mix. It'll have to do for now.

I perch on the edge of one of the 2 chairs at the table, ripping open the packet. Sil stares at me before sitting down and sighing. 'Why did you kill her?' There was plenty of malice in his tone, but also hints of fear. He ws a few inches shorter than me, but made up for it in his muscle mass.

'She was going to die anyways.'  
'You don't know that!'  
'Yes I do. She was destined to die thay day, and even if she wasn't I would've killed her. Death always comes in the end.Life is a terminal illness.' Sil is quiet, but he looks rejected, or as if he's questioning himself.  
'We should enjoy it when we have it.'  
'Enjoy what? A world of rape, kidnapping, theft, and abuse? Sure we can enjoy the good moments, but how can we even begin to feel good about ourselves knowing what we've done and can do? Humanity is humanity's worst nightmare.'

I lived for death.  
I wouldn't mind dying, but right now I'd prefer not to. I want to find him before I'm gone. To at least, die in his arms. Die with him. But until then, I have a purpose. Though it may not be a 'good' one, it is still a purpose to me.

 

I wished that I could see the death of the world.

I wished.

 

I didn't care when the successors first came to the orphanage.

They were nothing to me. Replacements. Empty shells, robotic slaves. However, when i stopped sulking, I actually noticed how fucked up they were.

Each of them were their own 'special little snowflake.' Henh. The first, Nate River, Near Small sheep. Quiet as hell, too much going on in that little head of his. More worthy than Mihael when it comes down to it, making his anger towards Nate stupid.

Sometimes you have to accept that you're not good enough. Mihael didn't know how to back down. He didn't understand that his recklessness was his downfall, silly child.

Mail didn't know when to step up. He could have easily surpassed Keehl, perhaps even Nate, if not for his utter apathy and reluctance. Something was definitely off in that head of his. Day by day, avoiding work, avoiding people, hiding in a world of fantasy and buttons.

I don't blame the kid. Reality sucks ass.

A  
A  
A

Pathetic. Scrambling. Didn't belong where he thought he did. Poked his nose where it didn't belong.

I'm only writing to kill time now, to avoid living life, reality, no time, my own mind, everything's on fire, but I don't care. Trying to outrun insanity is like climbing a ladder that you want to escape, the only way off is to jump off but to jump is to die but to die is to try

but I never really felt like trying much.

 

Fire is life. It burns away, eats at the unclean. Destroys the unworthy and overtakes nearly everything. It refines you.  
Makes you new.

Am I new? Maybe I've changed. What was I before I 'changed'? A small, scared boy that no one wanted? A foolish, enraged, jealous student that loathed nearly everything?

 

Just a bitter old man who wants to die with the world.

Ha.

Ha ha ha ha.

 

I'm awake. I blacked out. Sil is on the floor. Dead. I snapped his neck. It's a mess. It's all going to have to burn. No more traces, no more clues. If He won't leave any clues for me I won't leave any for him. Selfish selfish selfish bastard.

Moving. Gathering things. Shinigami is back. Took heroine. Head feels clearer now. No more numbers flying around.

Need to space sentences farther apart. Too many figures. Too many letters. Avoid repitition. Focus.

His body is still warm, and his blood is warmer. I cradle his corpse in my arms, blood flowing around us. Beautiful. Guts spilling onto me. His eyes are closed.  
I open them for him.  
Take them out. Slowly crush them, flicking them away.  
Lean into his neck. Breathe in his soft, warm smell. Gnaw apart the skin, blood, more blood, biting chunks of his throat out. Spitting out pieces of skin. Digging my nails into the fabric of his shirt. Ripping it off of him. Prying the wide gaping knife wound I had made in my blackout open, more bood and bodily fluids rushed over my hands and legs.

I gently shove my hand into the wound, reaching up further further until I'm elbow deep. Lungs, ribs. Heart. Grab it, tugging it down, down, out. 

I bring it to my lips. Warm, wet. Vulnerable. I lick it before squeezing it, blood running down in rivulets along my arm. I bite it. Metal, salt, heat. Smell is overwhelming.

Crush it. Cast it aside, leaning forward to lick the blood off of his face. Kiss him slowly, sliding his own tongue with mine and my teeth into my mouth. I lick it, suck it, bite it out. Spit it beside the heart. Spit out some blood, too. Run my fingers across his back, raking my nails into and across his skin, feeling the bumps of his spine under my touch.

I press into him, relishing the feeling of a warm, still body against mine, yet with no red haze. Take a moment or two to breathe. Close my eyes. Snap back to life. Pull my blood-soaked shirt off.

Chew at his collar, soft, tanned skin easily pierced under my chipped, yellow teeth. Yank off his jeans. Tasting all the way down to the gaping stomach wound licking up bits of salty, drying blood. He tastes like rain and human.

I rip off his boxers, nipping and chewing the soft, smooth skin of his thighs, tasting the top of his length. Discarding my own jeans and underwear, I shove myself inside of him, only lubricated by blood and some of my own precum. 

Clenching his shoulders with annoyingly bloody hands, I start to shift inside of him, wonderful friction causing some sort of ridiculously mind-numbing pleasure to course through me. 

This was wrong. Horribly, horribly fucked up. I didn't care.

It felt incredible, and I felt so physically and mentally dead to the world. I didn't even care that he was dead. Call it convenienced inconvenient timing. A dead man with a dead man. The thought makes me laugh slightly, but that quickly turns to a sharp gasp as another spike of agonizingly hot arousal curls in my lower stomach.

I halt, biting into his ribs. Muscle and skin rip apart under my teeth, and the overwhelming scent of blood bombards my senses once again. I continue to rip apart his flesh, blood spattering across my face and sliding down my chin as I choke it all down, shredding him to pieces.

I start to thrust erratically inside of him again, gripping a bared, white rib. I strip pieces of skin off leaving him completely and utterly exposed. I begin to find organs. I bite selectively through them, feeling the warm, wet body merge with my own. 

I'm so incredibly close. Not close enough. I move up to his neck once again, gnawing apart the tendons, bursting arteries and crunching windpipes. I'm slamming ourselves together, hips to hips, lips to neck, bone on bone.

I come with a hiss and a string of words foreign to innocent ears, snapping the rib I was holding. I sink into the gore and mess, my torso leaning into the horrificly destroyed torso of his, blood and other bodily fluids and organs greedily enveloping me in a sick, dead bath of death.

I finish, and by the time I'm done not an inch of me is clear of blood. Nasty, bothersome substance. I walk down into the cellar and clean myself off, changing. Next in order is a shower and bleach.

I get everything. Indictus watches me quietly.

It all burns.

I leave silently. Enter long ass road trip.

It may have been a waste of time. But I gained something from it all. Sil Marren, real name Christian Broker. An agent under Eraldo Coil's title who was looking for trouble more than work. I'm going to Greenland next.

(several pages have been ripped out or burned.)

Japan. Here. I raided Broker's clothes and belongings, found an earpiece, silly boy. L is Coil. I'm going to find him. Rumors say he's going to take the Kira case on. I got into a fight with Indictus.

I think I broke my face. I had to pop an arm back into my socket. I have stitches all across my left calf. Indi was holding back. Stupid of me, but my neuroticism has died down since then. 

I've been walking around in the streets for a while. Short, brown hair. Blue eyes. Glasses. Pale skin. Alexander Biestrom. New building opening. Tall, imposing. No sign, doors are locked and windows are one sided. Rather suspicious. 

People crowding around large TV on side of building. Public serivice broadcast. Lind L. Taylor. He must think he's hilarious. I know he's involved. I watch Taylor die. How very clever. A catch to it. Taylor was a fake but for what purpose? Location. Location perhaps, i looked it up. Only broadcast in my region. It seems this Kira is more foolish than I first believed, to fall for such a geniusly simple trick. So L is investigating Japan.

He probably won't come unless the case evolves, hence my suspicions towards the building. Going to break in at some point to look around. Thought of multiple people being Kira, an organization. But I quickly ruled that out as I remembered one thing Indictus had showed me.

The death note.

Some foolish, potent, debateably morally justified person took it upon themselves to rid the world of evil, while not thinking of the consequences. And the fact that it is nigh impossible.

Police men would be out of work, millions would lose their jobs and the economy would crash, innocent, possibly framed people would die, and new criminals would emerge only to die but reappear. A stupid idea. Kira is, undeniably, an idiot.

I wait. Watch the news. Stalk the internet, scour articles about Kira. Try hacking into multiple databases. It's pitiful how much accurate infofmation the CIA has on this supposed 'god.'  
I gave up on gods a long time ago. Like I could see Heaven anyways. Heh.

I can see death however. And that is enough.

Indictus has been rather talkative lately.

1\. The owner of a Death Note and those with the shinigami eyes 'like mysef' cannot tell their own lifespan. Obviously an owner without eyes can't so that was redundant but Indi didn't clarify if anyone could see the lifespan of the owner.

2\. Those who use the Death Note will go to niether Heaven or Hell, they will go to Mu. Ha ha. How very ironic.(1)

3\. The usual written name will die of a heart attack in 40 seconds, but another 6 minutes are given to write out the details. Sounds like a weapon of mass destruction to me. Too bad you can't copy n paste on paper.

4\. Usually those who have the shinigami eyes make a deal for them-- half their lifespan. I don't know how those rules apply to me and Indi refuses to say. Bastard.

Conclusion: Kira is an idiotic tool that I can use to get to L. Fun fun fun.

 

I saw some rather shady characters walking into the building. Ha ha ha. Eh.

Laughter is a panic reaction. For instance, being tickled. Your brain cannot predict the sensitive feeling of foreign mass against vulnerable nerves, it panics and your oxygen levels go loopy.

The sterotypical evil laughter is incredibly faulty and I find it rather distasteful. Yet I still despised the fact that I cannot laugh naturally. No fear is bad. Fear is a survival instinct. Something used to live. When out of control, that's when you falter. And die.  
Intelligence without drive is a waste, and drive without intelligence is reckless. Posess both attributes at the same time? The world is your canvas.

And my paint is red.

Pet peeves. Hmm. So many. I'll categorize them? No, ramble. No room for order. Order is slow, inefficient progress. Like building a town towards the ocean. Even if it takes a steam roller to crush it all, it stil gets to the ocean and fucking hell I'm shutting up.

Personified mary sues. Like the writing slang, many people appear or strive to be 'perfect.' I guess they could make a perfect corpse.

Insistent dumbasses. Those who believe they posess wisdom/knowledge yet don't or don't know how to use it. Pathetic, ignorant, selfish bastards.

Once upon a time, there was a princess trapped in a very deep hole under ground. She had found herself falling, falling, fallling. Thump. Crack goes her foot. The pretty little princess cripples and stays there for a very long time, yelling for help until her larynx collapsed in on itself. It hurt to breathe very soon.

Dirt and grime wormed under her nails, scraping away at her beautiful dress and messing her hair all over. She grew pale and weak, her twisted foot twitching and curling day by day. Her hands shook and her nails bled for scraping at the walls. Scraping, scraping, scrrraping. Her feet bled on sharp stones and thorny sprouts.

She cried and cried and cried and cried and cried until her wide green eyes shed blood, and her foot snapped and her back cracked and she curled up and cried. She cried until her voice was ripped from her throat, and slowly she began to cry away her body's liquids. 

She withered and withered and wiiithered away, shrinking and dry as she began to shed tears of bone and glass, her eyes filling with dirt as the hole swallowed her tears and screams.

Her small friends gasp. Run over. Help Angelica out of the pothole. Brush the mud off her little dress. Laugh as they run past each other, skipping along in a bright meadow where nothing was wrong.

And they all lived happily ever after...

THE END.

Ha.  
I'm tired. Tired of thinking of stupid rules of the moras of communities, other people, Schroedinger's cat, mirrors and eyes in every corner and nook and cranny every crack everywhere always watching eelfecting seeing showing LOOK AT WHAT IS BEING DONE.

I have the blood of dozens, if not hundreds on my hands.

 

I laugh as I lick it off. 

Laughter is a panic reaction, yet I feel nothing.

 

I smile at the small, frail, sheepy boy without any parents. Rewind, I call him.

I pluck a single black hair from a crow. I smile, waving it around. 'Research,' I tell him.

I hold the weak, dying child in my arms as I close my eyes. Blind, I kill him.

Life is only precious because it ends.

It's very likely that some lazy, diabetic authority figure is flipping through this. It's also very likely that you are reading this. In which case, hello, darling. Whether I'm dead or alive, you're going down with me in the end.

My hands will crawl down your throat and your nails will rip apart my back, and there will be screams and growls and pleading and cracks and splitting and tearing and crimson death spilling over us. It will seep into the pure, white snow, and slip away from the light of the moon.

I would rip your black feathers from your head, and you would bite into my jaw. We will end in a pile of gore and bones and organs and skin, crashing through a never ending night. It would be the end of the world.

But until then, all I can do is dream. Dream and write.

It reminds me of that one time we killed that elderly woman. We made her scream. Carved into her soft, aging skin. Broke her brittle bones. You laughed and I hummed, working together as joints popped and nails snapped.

I remember the shiny, shiny, shiiiny grater. It dragged her face around and around and around, messing up her nose and lips and eyes, making a big, twisted, skinny mess. We watched in awe as her face was slowly erased. You helped me snap her legs behind her back, along with her arms. 

I called her Shiva and slit her throat.

We were so alive. Filled with something more powerful than happiness, love, anger, or depression. Fire was in our veins and our hearts were made of stone. We devoured each other, kisses all made of teeth and warmth.

Do you remember? You were there, after all. Precious little crow.

It's funny how certain smells and sounds take you back to a memory, regardless of how long ago it occured. An overwhelming stench of nostalgia, and you want to stay in that time forever.  
The golden days where you would sit under a tree, picking at the grass below you. The smell of rain and dying worms on the sidewalk.

The feeling of sand in your hair, and dirty feet. Sitting in a drastically high place, feeling the wind on your face and the sun on your arms.

The building is more active than ever. Up to ten people go in and out every day. The doors remain locked. I watch it. Wait. Several men who I recognize from Japan's police force

I decide to break in.

At night. It's still going to be busy and people are around, but the building isn't completely surrounded by the city. There's a back area near a parking lot, fenced off. It contains electric boxes and wires. Possibly an entrance. It's not a chain link fence, so I have complete privacy. But first, I needed to research the building.

I tried hacking into the database. They used 'Windrow's co.' as faux title. Very little else is known about it. It kept rejecting every attempt I made. How very efficient. I decided to revisit an old friend.

I clawed my way into Wammy's. I had done it time and time before, and even though they regularily updated security, I regularily learn more. I scrolled through lines upon lines of code. Eventually I came across the two words that meant almost everything to me.

K i r a c a s e .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. B doesn't like sleeping because he often has strangely terrifying dreams about Mu.  
> well  
> that happened
> 
> turned out way more fucked up than I intended.  
> Thoughts?
> 
>  also please dont go fuck a corpse in the middle of the canadian wilderness im sure its illegal
> 
> ALSO I started watching soul eater and its literally eating my soul so go check that out writing is hard it may take llonger punctuation is for losers love u all bye  
>  
> 
> SERIOUSLY THIS IS MESSED UP


	8. insane insane insane insane they cry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> insane insane insane they cry
> 
> a broken brai n and a bucket of l i e s
> 
>  
> 
> A long ago written entry of 'Nyet Kjelling'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like shit hahahaha. Comments = me actually thinking anyone really cares. Love yall.
> 
>  Also I'm learning some japanese!（ ≧▽≦)/ カタカナ!
> 
>  
> 
> Dubcon and underage. Almost.

"Hello Nyet."

That's not my name.

"I'm Doctor Rosa."

I know.

"Can you hear me, Nyet?" 

Stop calling me that.

"It's okay if you don't want to talk about it."

I glared murderously at the cheery woman sitting across from me, and her cheer died down some. She scribbled something down before returning to her plastered-on smile.

"So, what's on your mind?"

Death.

"I heard you tried to throw yourself from a railing a while ago. Was that because of--"

"Stop."  
Shut up shut up shut up shut up.

"I'm sorry. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

s h u t u p .

"Have you experienced any unusual sleeping or eating habits recently?"

I knew this one. I always did anyways. Symptoms of depression or suicidal thoughts include fluctuations in sleeping and appetite. I could go for hours without food or sleep. I constantly was in a haze, interested in little, and I really, really would like to die. But I wouldn't allow that yet.

So yes. I was depressed.

But I wouldn't give this shitty shrink what she wanted. Nearly five experts had tried to get me to talk. No luck. I wasn't allowed to see Him since I tried to rip his throat out with my teeth. He's the only one I would ever talk to. Ever.

"Nyet?"

I didn't feel like playing anymore. I left. Children scattered in my wake. I walked to his room. Rules be damned. I raised a hand, knocked twice. Silence.

I tried the knob. Unlocked. Odd. He usually keeps his room locked. Like it ever stopped me. I slip inside, closing the door quietly behind me. It was dark, but that was to be expected. His computer was on, but he wasn't sitting in front of it. Rather, he was curled up in a ball on the floor. I hesitated, then silently shuffled forwards.

I lowered myself to the floor, laying with him and stroking his unwashed, soft hair. His back felt warm against my chest, and I could feel his steady, deep breathing. I breathed in his smell, the scent of cheap hand sanitizer and a sweet smell of something else. I was never really good with smells. Sounds and feelings were my strong point.

He twitched.

"You're not supposed to be here."

His words were sharp, and rang throughout the small room. It almost hurt. I grazed the back of his neck with my teeth and he immediatly tensed, almost letting out a squeak? Delightful sound.

"Get out."

"Make me."

"I will."

 

"I dare you to try."

He turned, and in an instant has hand was grabbing my wrist, trying to twist it away from his hair. I grabbed both of his boney, pale hands, and rolled us over, pinning him beneath me with some carefully placed weight distribution. My knee dug into his thigh and the other into his gut.

I tilted my head, dark hair drifting over my face. I almost smiled. I could see the red tint very slightly. I could tell by the look on his face that he could see it too.

"Get. Off."

A hiss. I loved to make him squirm.

I swiftly leaned in to nuzzle his neck before he could pull away, running my tongue along his collar. His breath hitched and I could feel his glare.

"You're disgusting."

"You like it."

I was pushing it, but this was an opportunity. We were completely and utterly alone. He was mine. I didn't know how long our time would last, but I wouldn't waste a second of it. I made sure he knew this as I trailed kissing down his chest, dragging at his collar with my teeth.

He fidgeted underneath me and tried to shove me off. While we were both skinny, I made up for it in muscle mass. Sort of. I bit harshly into the side of his neck, rolling my hips into his. This time he actually squeaked, trying to smash his head against mine. I swiftly dodged, leaning into catch his lips in mine, an almost bruising kiss.

For a moment he froze as my tongue slipped past his dry lips, moving around in his mouth, tasting him. I released his hands, running my own against his sides under his shirt as I pressed into him, relishing the feeling of his warmth underneath me. I slid my hands further, further, further down and he jerked out of the kiss, scowling at me.

"Intellectually gifted or not, we are not old enough to have sex."

His words were cold and firm. I rolled my eyes back into my head, considering this.

"I'm nearly eighteen."

"Key word nearly."

"Who said I wanted to have sex?"

Silence. I smirked, using the chance to slide my hand further down, pinching his ass. He yelped, shoving me off of him and I laughed and laughed and laughed.

He scowled at me. "Not funny."  
"It's hilarious."  
"No it's not."  
"Yes it is."  
"B."  
"L."

He knew I was only mocking him, but he still looked incredibly agitated. 

"Why were you lying on the floor anyways?"

"I was sleeping."

I snorted. Sure he was. Odd little bird.

I tried again, pinning him in the blink of an eye as I began to chew and kiss at the side of his neck, and I could feel him shuddering beneath me. I entangled my hands in his hair entwining his legs in mine. 

He didn't seem all that resistant at first, but when I began to press into him, my hips sharply digging into his as I slid my hand under his shirt and over his shoulder, he let out a tiny gasp and tried to wriggle away.

I persisted, kissing across his jaw and nipping his earlobe harshly. 

"/B/." He growled, untangling his legs from mine as he shifted as far as I would allow him. "Get. Off." I pouted, but complied, rolling off of him. He huffed as he sat up, scooting away from me. "Leave." I left.

I watched the children. Most of them were class fours and threes. Linda, a class three, tackled Brian, another boy from her class. He shrieked, scrabbling out from underneath he as he tried to escape. She cackled sadistically.

They grow up so fast.

Lee, a class four, tried to concentrate on his book but was interrupted by Lindsey, a class two. She asked him something that I didn't hear and he paled, shaking his head.  
Too many L names.

Rin and Lukja walked into the room, slumping down on the sofa. Rin immediatly conked out, drooling on the couch arm while Lukja watched the younger children mutely. Lee smiled at him.

Kohl ran screeching through the room, covered in glue as he was followed rampantly by his sister, Miggles.

Odd names for odd children.

The small children gathered around a documentary about coral reefs scattered as the wild Matt approached, swinging his shaggy haired head around as he sniffed the air for food. He turned on the X box and plopped onto the grease-stained sofa.

I sat curled up in a corner, watching the chaos.

Ib, a short, gangly child with blue-green hair stumbled past me, tripping over my sockless foot. What is it with the kids here and hair dye? Lee probably shared his. Ib constantly looks like he's on drugs. He's a class four. Probably eats glue. Strange little shit. 

He squeaked, racing out of the room. Fear was evidently in his eyes. I ignored him. Plenty if not all of the children were terrified of me. I didn't care, I was used to it. Even before A they were terrified. Heh. Don't blame em.

Sometimes I scared myself.

But that stopped.

The majority of the damage in my fall was probably directed at my frontal lobe, and the murder of A made me recklessly bolder. But I knew my limits. I had to. It also severly fucked up my dream process. I've never had nightmares. But now, the dreams seem surreally terrifying, like a dark mass pushing past my brain's possible comprehension.

I don't want to go insane.

I can't go insane.

It shouldn't be.

I cannot crack.

His successor or not... It slows and jumbles the brain process. Prevents proper thought. Prevents living life normally.

I could have left. Could have dropped out of the line to succeed him. Could have gone to another foster home. Cleaned up. Plastered a fake smile on. Get abused, neglected, hated, anything but go insAne.

The loss of mind is the loss of everything. Complete devestation. 

My therapist gave me this journal to write in and promised never to look in it. Another lie. Another spoon of soap in her food. I neglected it, but when Roger found the stash of animal bones beneath my bed, he prohibited me from going outside. Bastard.

So this is all I have. My thoughts, outside of my mind. This is going to burn. Everything ends in flames. Everything.

Makes you wonder how it feels to be 'regular' human. A proper neurological mindset. Morals. Blind ignorance. Blind happiness. Family. Blind purpose. Sometimes you hear best when you close your eyes.

I have not fallen into complete and utter devestational psychosis yet. Yet. My brain is inverted. I cannot abide by societal rules, and therefore will be rejected everywhere I go. Even Wammys.

So I'lll have to run.

Run like a dog with my tail in between my legs, doing unspeakable things by night and day. I wonder how long I'll go before stabbing myself in the throat. Ha, makes me wonder how I've already gone that long anyways. I wish I died when I cracked my head over that banister.

An interruption of everything. The destruction of construction. Stopping a song half way through. Death does not care for worldy affairs or the 'love' of mortals. Death does not care for age, race, gender, sexuality, religion, species, or size of a mortral. Everything will end. 

A startling, mind blowing concept that humans seem unwilling to grasp necause they're too caught up in temporary things. Even when other lives end, a simple fatal heat wound can end it all. Stop the record. A rude, unforgiving, apathetic gift.

People love life because it's a beautiful lie, and hate death because it's the painful truth. Everything ends in death.

That's how life goes.

But until then, I will fight. I will claw and grab, clinging onto survival like a child. I will do everything in my power to live this short, pathetic, destructive life. Because the best you can do to Death is to spit in it's face. 

And so I'l live to destroy life. Make everyone miserable. Crush the rules of this mortal realm, and listen to the madness that is all that would remain. A pile of corpses. A sky of blood. Screams in our eyes. We could watch the death of the world, precious crow.

Complete.

 

 

I tried to kill myself again. I had found a bottle of whiskey. Downed the whole thing, dropped it accidentally. Splat smash smatter. The sheepy creep caught me before I could shove a shard into my wrist. Told a teacher. Teacher told Roger.

Went to medical wing. Got stitches. Drugged me. Took away anything else they thought I could kill myself with. If I actually felt like dying I would be dead right now. But I'm too tired to kill myself.

Maybe I could die in my sleep.

I still need to run. May as well sadistically torture myself by not allowing myself to die. I bleached my calves as an experiment. It burned. I bleached my hands as well. I'll probably bleach my face as well when I run.

It's as if I'm addicted to the pain.

I have twisted, burned, and scarred my mind and body nearly beyond recognition. And I don't give a single shit. Things are getting boring without him.

Someone else walks into the room. Mihael. He flops on top of Mail. Ah yes. The new successors. All Mail does is frown and wiggle around a bit before resuming playing. Mihael begins to sing some absurd renditioon of 99 bottles of beer on the wall.

'99 bottles of milk on the wall, 99 bottles of milk!  
Nobody knows if it's really milk, 98 bottles of milk on the wall!'

He continues singing. I leave. I try to go outside, but a teacher stops me. I head to the library. At least there should be a place to have some peace and quiet. Maybe even dreamless sleep.

It is indeed silent when I walk in. But I'm not alone. The sheep is on the floor, stacking stray books

He doesn't even look up when I enter, but continues to align the thin books on their spines. A rather intricate structure really. I shuffled back to the far corner of the shelves, the dark fiction area.

I sit by the window in the corner. The sky is grey, but the sun still shines through the clouds. Meh. I stare outside for a while before noise from the other end of the shelves catches my attention. The voice of Mihael.

"Come ON, Near! Have some mercy! I need that one for one of my classes!"

"No you don't."

Keehl huffed, storming towards my area. He stopped, scowling suspiciously at me. I look up, staring expectantly. 

"Who are you?" He finally snaps. I continue to stare at him before an idea crosses my mind. A not very good idea. I tilted my head, allowing a yellow-teethed smile to grace my dry, cracked lips.

"I... Am L."

He blanches. "Prove it." My smile widens, and I stand. Even hunched over I'm still taller than him.

"No."

"What? What do you mean, 'no?!'"

"I mean no. If you were smart enough you would know already. And nobody knows but L."

"So you aren't L!"

"L could just be referring to himself in third person."

" You weren't before."

"So you think I AM L." I finish happily. Mihael looks confused, then angry.

"Damn fraud." He mutters, trying to stomp off again. but before he could I grabbed his arm, yanking him back to face me. My grin was gone and his eyes widened.

"Watch yourself, Mihael. You'll end up failing. And failure is worse than death."

He seemed to be terrified of me as I let him go.

Failure wasn't worse than death. It just means that both your life and death were a pathetic waste of existence. I just decided to stereotype for little Mihael. Seems it worked.

He ran away quickly, his little bare feet plodding noisily on the carpet.

Silly boy.

 

I begin to prepare to run. I find a bag. Two jars of jam. I scramble for money. Find a twenty in my room. Steal a forty from Roger. He'd probably use it for cigars or something anyways.

Quillsh returns. I experiment with running away, escaping out of a bathroom window in the middle of the night. I examine the walls around the orphanage to 'protect' the children. Like they needed them for that. Stewart was enough to scare anybody.

A short, red headed australian child who refuses to leave the property but also refuses to ever set foot in the orphanage again. So he lived in the forest outside. He used to be a class one. Brian is his older brother.

Thankfully, I never encountered him on my rounds around the walls. I did find a large, sturdy tree that when climbed, you could easily make it over the wall.

After nearly a week I left.

Right now, I'm hiding on a cargo ship headed to the states. I did say goodbye to him though. I couldn't have left without doing so, anyways. That would be rude.

When I enter his room he is completely alone. Quillsh is talking to Roger, and he is busy clicking through case after case. I stare for a moment, slightly dazed by the ethereal look the glow his computer cast on his hair, framing his scrawny frame with light.

"If you're going to attack me then I suggest you reconsider. I have mace."

I wasn't sure if he was joking or not. I laughed anyways. He turned, a frown on his face. I stared into his ridiculously large, dark grey eyes and smiled.

"What do you want, Backup?"

No. No. No. No. Not backup. Not behind, not beneath, not backwards, not a replacement, no, no, no. My smile quickly twisted into a sneer. He wanted another fight. Why?

Whatever the reason, I wasn't going to give him what he wanted. Unless he knew what I would do and use the opportunity to tastelessly taunt me. Which was rather immature.

"I heard you tried to kill yourself again."

Rude.

"I didn't try. If I tried, I would have succeeded."

"So what was the point? You don't seem the whiny, I-need-attention type."

"A pathetic display of vulnerability. Or perhaps utter apathy."

"Or maybe you just wanted to end up like A."

That. That wasn't. No. No. No.  
I stepped forwards, and he visibly tensed. He probably wasn't expecting what he recieved instead of the obvious violence.

I gently but firmly forced his knees down from his frog-like sitting position as I moved closer, kissing him slowly, but definitely with some form of greedy need. He frowned even more as I pulled back to breathe.

"Not this again."

"Shut up." I said breathlessly. My heart seemed to haved a mind of it's own, straining to thump out of my chest. My face felt unusually warm as I shifted even closer to him. In the kiss, I had subconciously straddled his lap, looping my arms around his neck.

The smile made it's way back onto my face as I laid my cheek suddenly on his chest, listening through the fabric. He started, I swore I could have heard it in his heart. He was scared. On edge.

Good.

I ran my fingers through his hair, and smoothed it under my nails as I closed my eyes. But first, I had to know something. Make him tell me, no matter what.

"What are you going to do with me now that I'm a useless liability?"

I knew everything about Wammy's. About him. About the students. And I was very close to criminally insane.

"Let you stay. There's no other option, really."

"Let or force?" I questioned dubiously.

He doesn't ever reply.

I leave a dew days later. Now, the torture begins. The wait. Day after day. Sleeping in a dumpster. A crashed car. Was out of luck once, tried eating part of my victims. Tasted like pork or veal. I don't like pork or veal, but it worked. I tried to avoid thinking about him.  
About L.

L would taste like sugar and metal. No, I wouldn't bite into his muscles. Just make him bleed. Bleed him and skin him and do wonderful, wonderful things to him.

I would make him scream.

 

L.

L is the twelfth letter in the alphabet.

 

12 hours in a day. 12 numbers on a clock. 12 months in a year.

 

12 is 1 less than 13. 13 13. B B. LABB, L is after Beyond Birthday.

L is for lost.

L is for lonely.

L is for loss.  
Has L lost? Maybe. Yes? No. L is alive. B is dead. But if L is actually dead and B is alive, then B has lost. Because B cannot exist without the basis of L. And thus everything ceases to exist.

 

I used to have nightmares. Dreams of an unspeakable, neverending space of dust and death. They terrified me. I loathe sleeping now, even though I know they can never come back. Not physically possible, no, no. Damage to the frontal lob. Almost reckless fearlessness. But being without fear but still without intelligence is a world-owning ability. I have the capability to commit genocide. Maybe not the energy. But if I were to block everything out, become a shell of myself…

Ha. Sounds boring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also i might write a fanfic about wammys house pls t me know if any of yall would be interested in dat  
> Nyet is B's legal name when he went into social services. His mother attempted a back alley abortion, but failed and had him nyway.  
>    
> I lost my tablet so updates will be SUPER SLOOOW ;-;  
> WRITING IS HARD


	9. Action, let.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things happen.  
> Very short, Sort of something to tide yall over. So sorry DX A lt of shit's happening right now and I'm typing this at the library anyways.

Tip. Tap. Tip. Tap.

Gods I hate this building. Boards creaking. Faucets leaking. Too much noise, clicks, hisss, tick tick tick tick. Smells like leather and mold. I found an enormous spider in one of my empty jam jars. I trapped it under it. Too bored to kill it. I watched it. Beautiful creature really, yellow and green markings along it's back. The jar slightly jams their legs in, making their futile scrambling almost pitiful. Pretty pretty pretty.

L doesn't like spiders. There was one in his room and he froze. Stared at it. I stared with him. He quietly reached for something to crush it with but I had caught it first. I picked it up by the leg. Dangled it in front of his face. He just looked rather annoyed. I tossed it out the window.

There are certain ways I'll kill and certain ways I won't for very certain reasons. If I want someone to suffer horribly, I usually don't even use a knife. I just use my hands. If I want the suffering to be very long, then I'll use poisons, insects, and sometimes rats. If I want to get a kill over with, I'll snap their neck. Other times when angry, I usually just stomp their brains out. I hardly ever use guns, too impersonal, too noisy, too unreliable. You can muffle a scream, but not a gunshot. If I happen to be making a case, I will make the signs as hard to find as possible. Once there was a case when the taskforce was so miserably awful I just blew up their base. Almost painful to go through, but almost amusingly stupid. I quickly left that area. It was never really solved. No wonder.

Misora. Misora, Misora, Misora. That case was fun. I made the dolls myself. Arranged the stuffed animals and strings ever so carefully. The work put into it was immense. Then there was the waiting, the stalking, the fight, everything and that. I happened to hear a conversation between Misora and fiance, apparently called 'Ray.' He's in the FBI. If anything ever really arises like that again, I could always look into it. But I doubt it. That case was there because I made it. Every case is because of me. Every flaw, every clue, every single detective investigating was because of me. Some people crave such a power. Others fear it. I, simply understand it.

In a way, we a ll influence the world around us. Whether it be body language, arguments, buying something, stepping on a fucking leaf, we affect something. Whenever you hum a song that the other person knows, they may later hum it subconciously. Memories are never lost, just stuffed back there. It's not like they can hide in your little grey cells, they just fade, bit by bit. Strong connections with your subconciousness and muscle memory factor well into PTSD, which explains a few things about me. PTSD can kiss my ass, though. I try to avoid things that would trigger that as often as possible. A clear mind, a clear soul. Heh. If I even have one.

If anyone really has one, really. There is no possibility, or impossibility. Something is real until proven impossible though.

If a soul means emotions, habits, whatever, then animals would have souls as well. Like the reason some geese are hostile while others are not. Animals are very human-like. And humans are very animalistic. Such a comparison would be labelled inhumane, but I guess we've already cleared the subject that such a thing is not that unusual. It all seems so repetitive, so boring. I should shoot myself, really. At least death would be a new experience. Something I know very little about. Something very, very alluring in concept while at the same time terrifying.


	10. Lunatic?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fun times.  
> Prison entry!!! 
> 
>  
> 
> (yes im holding off on the kira investigation for now because im sick and plot development.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still a first person, but B refers to himself in third person at times.

Click click click.

Rattle.

Inmate gone. No friends. Hnng. Bored.

73rd day here. No troubles. Very nice prisoner. So low maintenence. Ugly, granted, but that's not his fault, hmm? Oh. Wait. It is. Ah well, more pity. Boring white cell. Padded. But still, I could still kill myself if necassary. Somehow he doubts that'll happen. So uneventful. Promises to wait.... Maybe 100 days. Going to call Lovely tomorrow. Yearning to hear his voice.

So, so flawlessly beautiful. Skin like porcelain. Bones like glass. So fragile. A precious little doll. Can't wait to see him again. It's like a drug, ethereal, too good to ever be true. 

Walls are too white. Not like him. Just plain. Boring. Unnatural. White is an impossible color, nothingness reflecting off of nothingness. I dislike it. Besides, bloodstains are a pain in the ass to try and get rid of. Not all the salt in the world could take away the red from a single white shirt.

My true skin skin will never be the same. Mangled, scarred. Horrific gashes and burns. All self inflicted. All permanent. Stabbed myself in the leg once. Neurotic fits, fuzzy blackouts. You could say the signal was a bit down. Obscure, locked up thoughts. Selective muteness. Layers after layers of makeup, latex, reconstructive face surgery. Couldn't fix it.

Couldn't fix me.

___

Bad, bad, bad B. How horrible. How awfully, garishly cruel.

I was placed in a straight jacket. 24/7 surveillance. 

The guard was young. So fresh and innocent. Delectable.

Bit into his neck. Nearly ripped out his larynx. Red, red everywhere. White to pink to red to orange to brown to dead. He's dead. They tased me. Drugged me, locked me away on another floor. So unexpected. And such a nice young man, too (save the scars) but still (he was a murderer.) Maybe, (Killed dozens, so horrible.) Irrideemable? Yes.

Even hell wouldn't take him now.

Then maybe Lovely would?

That would be nice. I saw him the other day. So pretty, yet messy. I clawed away at him and missed him and bit him, breathed in his wonderful, awful smell. The guards had to sedate me to keep me from hurting myself and further. I feel like a mirror. Like an empty vessel.

L is B, B is L, lovely, lovely Lawliet, where have you run to? Who are you? I can't stand me. Am I B? No, L? Perhaps we are one and nothing, in each other's imagination.

L, my lonely, dear imaginary friend. And I, his repulsive, nihilistic haunt.

It's growing almost unbearable. I haven't seen Indictus for days, and they have me under lock and key, face mask, chains, alarms everywhere. They're all afraid of me, the smart ones. They know what I can do. What I'm capable of.

Lawli dear knows too. He always knew. He's scared of me, the precious, odd little bird. I don't blame him, though, after all I've done to him. But he loved it. I made him cry and moan and scream and bleed and come amd he loved every damn second of it.

And he hasn't visited once.

No one has. Nobody would. I'm a psycopathical gay serial killer, I doubt many people in their right minds would visit me.

There's a new prisoner in the cell across from me. He cries a lot. I'm surprised he hasn't cried out all of his bodily fluids and dried up like a raisin. I don't like it. It's pathetic. 

It reminds me too much of A.

I remember Lawli playing the piano once, a very hollow, soft song. Like him. I sat underneath before creeping up onto the bench with him, breathing the same ir, sharing warmth.

They don't have music in prison. Only off key singing and crying, crying crying and more crying. I'm exhausted. My eyes burn and everything itches and I want the crying to stop.i want it to stop stop stopstop.

I crack my head on the glass and sail into darkness. And it stops.  
When I come to, they're checking my vitals and rebandaging some of the scars I had ripped open with my nails, and I can't move. Damned paralytics. I had used them often, and was not dissapointed with how weakening it felt. However, the paralytic itself was weak.

Two doctors. A young man and woman, both scurrying around and doing... whatever.

"Holy fuckin' up." I croaked, and they both immediatly rushed over, checking my pulse and other unnecassary things. I stare, almost hypnotized by the red letters dancing above the female doctor's head.  
T R A C Y N A U K  
6 0 4 0 3

She didn't have long. I pondered on this as the tan, dark hared male doctor shined a flashlight into my eyes. I want to grab it and snap it and shove the little wires into his beautiful, clear skin one by one. But I couldn't afford to do that as long as I wanted to see my precious Lawliet.

So I stayed still like a good boy and let them stick needle after needle into my skin. It reminds me of when I would get my high not from killing but from a needle, and even heroin can't halt bloodlust.  
They don't allow narcotics like that in prison anyways.

IThey put me in a straightjacket and strapped me to a bed. For my own 'saftey,' they said.

I remember every moment, every touch of my saying goodbye to him. He didn't even know I was leaving. All he knew was that my tongue was in his mouth and hand was down his pants (he was so damn hard it was almost hysterical, but so was I) and I wasn't afraid to leave marks.

He tried to push me off like always but he liked it too much, (he always liked it) and then he was naked and I was tasting his soft, sugar-white skin, wondering of it's contents as I stroked him and fucked him and sucked him off like no damn tomorrow, and Lawli dearest is not quiet during sex. 

After we both came several times, and his body was slicked with sweat and semen and warmth, he asked me how old I was. I was sixteen at the time, and he flipped his shit. He was seventeen. Big deal. It was his first time. He was scared.

Thank god Quillsh didn't find us. The next day though, he was sitting funnily and he had odd purplish marks on his collar, (my marks) the back of his neck and his chest and little red marks (yes, those would ache for days,) in between his beautiful, soft, long legs. (And then Lawli is mine. Always has been always will be.) 

That night still hits me in the gut (or the dick, depending on the day-) and there is an insatiable frustration.

And so I sit. And wait. There is nothing to do in a straightjacket. I could escape (but I shouldn't.) I need to wait. So I crack open my dry, stale-aired mouth and start to sing through my mask (they gave that itty bitty after I used the gaurds throat as a chew toy. 

My muzzle.

I realize I was only singing a single, monotonus note. No lyrics. What did I want to sing? I recall something specific.

I stop. I stop singing I stop trying and for a while I stop breathing. But I breathe again. For him.


	11. Choices?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short bridge to the buildup of the Kira case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahhhh im so sorry its been forever since I've updated and there's a new story I started which I'm semi stuck on and I have an idea for a short story tHATS RUINING MY LIFE I CANT START WRITING BUT I CANT STOP HELP but anyways here you are i apoloize for me in general.

When I break into the building's shiny, brutal firewall, I begin to research files, scavenging for any key words or codes. Using a tool I had bought for a rather disgruntling price, I decided to search the entire system for results.

I tried most of what I could think of. L wasn't a fool, he wouldn't put in just any old key. I tried a few, and was denied every time until finally, I got in. The key had been Moorekjel. I smiled bitterly to myself. A term he had often used when referring to us in his notes and progress reports, like we were some kind of monster with two brains and one body.

The lines upon lines of code had brought me back to when I taught one of the new successors, Jeevas, the basics of it all. He was a fucking prodigy last time I saw him.

Maybe I did leave some pathetic kind of legacy. I laugh to myself at the thought, no. B is merely a legend. Or, rather soon it will be was. Letting my whimsy thoughts of past marks and memory be violently pushed to the side, I had woken myself back to reality.

I was good at hacking, no doubt. Perhaps I exceeded L in that. But I suppose he was the one who taught me, and I learned from then on. But this was surprisingly easy to get into and I was immediately suspicious. 

Things were never easy with Lawliet.

As soon as I'm in the system, I read all of the kira case files. Main suspect? Light Yagami. Genius college student. I file away the name. I had heard of Yagami before, this one must be the son of the one I know.

So Light or one of his aquaintences (Girlfriend Misa Amane, a fucking model, or a friend perhaps.) regularily writes names in the death note. Why? Maybe Yagami-kun was just really into the death penalty. Who knows?

What I do know is Yagami-kun doesn't like rivals, and L is a rival. Therefore, I don't like Yagami-kun. His blinding stupidty doesn't help. Perhaps Indi was right, the lil' black book just makes you go bonkers.

I decide the simplest way to infiltrate the case would be to find Yagami-kun and see if he has numbers or not. I'm pretty sure those without numbers have a death note. If he doesn't then I could either do the dirty way of turning him in with some breaking and entering and anonymously gifting the incriminating evidence, or killing him and perhaps Amane myself. It would make for a lovely case.

I would have to kill Watari. The thought doesn't exactly leave me in tears, but I would have liked to avoid killing the man who was the closest to a father (hell, grandfather even) I've ever had. He was kinder than Roger. I know it would break lovely's heart. For once, I'm actually conflicted about murdering someone. Heh.

Or I could find L and keep him to myself. Run far, far away. Solve the Kira case so easily, live together and die together. But I don't think I'll ever get that version of my story.


End file.
